FEEDBACK

by Chris R. Morgan

I must admit I was very surprised when you reached out to me to meet.

I’m sorry, I forgot how you don’t like surprises.

I think surprise is the art of the bad first impression.

I’ve heard that. But does that include birth? That, I’d think, is very surprising.

I’d say it laid the foundation for every subsequent surprise. I have never been surprised pleasantly. People tell me about it happening to them, but I wouldn’t know how to even conceptualize it. You could say I was a virgin to the pleasant surprise.

Oh boy.

But you’ve robbed me of my purity! It is very pleasantly surprising to be standing in front of you in your studio right now.

Cheers to that, I guess.

Cheers!

It’s been a while. I want to say … five … six months?

It’s more like a year and a half.

That long?

The data doesn’t lie. If my text logs are any indication. Look … note the date of the text you sent me to be here now. Now above that is the last text I sent you, about 16 months before. I had to count to make sure.

Here I was flattered by your keeping such careful track of my absence. But having it on record humbles me.

The feeling is mutual I assure you.

The testament to true friendship: mutual humility.

So then, why am I here?

Of course. I invited you here for two things. First to inform you of the nature of my absence, which in no way is rooted in some defect on your part. It is not rooted, for instance, in your tendency to be overbearing in the presence of others.

Okay.

I think, though perhaps some may not agree but I haven’t surveyed, that your sense of presence is sharp and adequately applied. No, it’s not that at all; the fault lies completely with me. You will recall that when we were last together that I was fresh off my most recent project.

Yes.

And that I was eager to start a new one. Well that was easier said than done, as it always is. For several weeks I sequestered myself in this very room, subsisting on whole milk, ramen noodles, and milk chocolate bars as I tried to stake out my next great idea. Ideas came, don’t be mistaken, but they left almost as easily as they appeared. Nothing seemed to attach itself to my membrane with much eagerness. No idea seemed … hungry as I was hungry. Soon I lost track of time. This was not working at all. Then I had a party, a few parties actually.

You had parties?

Yes, but they were a purely professional matter, for the purpose of honing my craft. It was a prized method of my mentor Klaus Darwin; may he rest in prurience.

Did it work?

Alas, it was also easier said than done. I sequestered myself again, breaking the solitude occasionally with the interventions of women.

You’ve been dating?

I assure, yet again, not with any enthusiasm. Doctor’s orders, you see, entirely therapeutic, like taking a pill rectally. The wisdom of Dr. Tilda Hidalgo, PsyD.

I don’t know her.

May the angels sing her sweetly, etc., etc.

Were you cured?

No, I actually felt emptier and more spiritually destitute than ever I had felt in my life. But it turns out that was precisely the feeling I had to chase in order to clean my imaginative pipes. Pretty soon an idea did latch on with vampiric force, we assumed a symbiosis and the next several months—more, apparently, than I thought—were spent in challenging but not tedious collaboration. Which brings me to the second reason for my need of you. I suspect you’ve noticed the blanketed structure just over in back there?

I have.

The fruit of my toil. I give you … The Drowning Spoon.

The Drowning Spoon?

Yes.

It’s …

It’s a work in progress; a prototype, you might say. It’s about an eighth of its actual size, which I reckon would be on par with the tallest building in any midsize city. Like Montclair. Or Minneapolis.

Is that a working title, The Drowning Spoon?

It is final. The Drowning Ladle did not quite have the right ring. It is the title I’ll be bringing to the Foundation for the Arts next week for my grant application.

In what sense is it drowning?

You are here to help me explore that and other potentialities. You are not an artist, yes, and you maybe possess a greater hardness of perception and a literal-mindedness that the funding committee is not quite comfortable with. But maybe that’s what I need to see this through.

Can I … can I touch it?

If that will help you.

It’s smooth.

Texture is another potentiality. Does it feel right?

It’s what I expected, if that helps.

It doesn’t not help, I suppose. 

I’m sorry … I’m not sure … Do you want something more … constructive or …

Nothing too involved. I just want your … your … your impressions. Impressions you, as an amateur but informed lover of art, have upon seeing this work.

Even though it’s not full-size?

Just imagine it’s full-size in some outdoor exhibit upstate or some rotunda somewhere.

Okay. I want to say, somehow, it’s … phallic in some way?

Is that a question?

Sort of?

In what sense is it phallic in nature? What made you go there?

I’m not sure … it’s the first thing that came to me.

Somehow I doubt that.

Isn’t that what it always boils down to?

Maybe in an MFA assessment; but I’m thankfully past that.

Sorry … I’m sorry. I’m looking at this thing, you’re telling me it’s The Drowning Spoon. I’m … I’m having a hard time understanding.

Understanding? I’m not asking you to understand it. I’m not even asking you to like it. I don’t even want you to like it. A lot of people like sitting on the toilet. If the Foundation for the Arts wanted art they liked I’d just send them a fecal punch bowl and we wouldn’t be having this discussion. Great art is not about preference; it’s about imposition. I want to know what this thing I made is forcing on you. How is it cornering you? How is it getting in your face? What is it saying as it clouds your glasses with its breath?

I … I don’t …

Just … just stand right here and look. Take a long look at The Drowning Spoon. You see it now?

Sure.

Now look at it and tell me what it’s telling you with as much accuracy as you can manage.

If you say so.

Well?

I see myself. But it’s not me now, it’s me from the past. I’m 11 or 12 maybe. And I’m running.

Where are you running?

On a road. It’s dark.

To where?

It’s not where I’m running, it’s what I’m running from. I’m running away from a broken home.

Your house is broken?

No, the house is fine, it’s sturdy. The home, its contents are, in their way, broken—toxic, unlivable. I’m escaping them, crudely, as a child would. I don’t really know where I’m going. It’s a country road and there’s no one around. No one driving, no other houses. No light but the moon. There is … there is a field though, to my right. I stop and look at it and …

And?

It’s a field of spoons. They’re wafting with the wind. Like amber waves of grain, but silvery.

Silver waves of spoons. Fascinating.

When the sun hits it just right, they shine blindingly. And in the moonlight they glow incandescently. They can probably be seen for miles. But now I hear them singing. It is a chorus. An ejaculation of sound in unison. A chant to the stars. No, I’m sorry, to me. They’re chanting to me.

What are they singing?

Can’t you hear it? It’s getting louder. I think they’re calling me, trying to coax me off the road. They’re saying it’s safe, maybe, that’s just a guess. Maybe, deep down, that’s what I want. I think I’ve made a mistake. But I can’t remember what direction I came down on. I think I’m going to be sick.

There’s a sink in the corner.

Oh … oh God. I’m so sorry. Has someone already puked here?

Don’t worry about that. Just run the faucet on hot.

I feel like that didn’t help you in the way you hoped. Like I misread your whole idea.

Well … things like “concept” and “intention” are pretty fluid before the check is in-hand.

I should probably go.

Use the service elevator in the back. It’s faster. Here, I’ll show you.

Thank you. I hope you get your grant.

I think you’ve helped me a lot in that regard.

You think? Hey, there’s nothing here, it’s just a shaft.

Thank you again for your help, I mean it.

Hey, what the fuck are you doing? Hey. HEY.

Some progress. But still a way to go. Sorry … I’m sorry! Hello. I was doing some last-minute cleaning. It’s a mess in here. Terribly embarrassed.

Oh, it’s fine.

Come in, please.

I must admit I was very surprised when you reached out to me to meet.

Oh yeah, sorry. I remember how you don’t really like surprises.

I think surprise is the art of the bad first impression.

I’ve heard that.